


A Cloak Covered Cage

by Osmosian



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osmosian/pseuds/Osmosian
Summary: This is a small horny piece on Sandor and Sansa, with no plot.I wrote this about two years ago, when I was super into Game of Thrones.I seriously doubt I'll finish this, or put more work into it, since I'm no longer a fan of it, and I am terrible at finishing stuff.This has been on my PC for a while, with minimal editing, and I'm just going to throw it up here.Incredibly rough, and pretty old.





	A Cloak Covered Cage

**Sansa**

In the stickiness of heat, Sansa Stark prayed to the Seven for the winter of her home. To think she would pray for it, when  her prayers had once been of the golden King’s Landing. She pressed the days when she had prayed only for Joffrey’s hand in hers and a long summer into her own private box of bitterness, and peered on it in her own sullen way. She was cautious, however, that nobody knew this. The ladies at court would see her happiness, and would emulate it, for she was the King’s betrothed, and it was right that she was happy. If every now and then she would carry the bruises of her beloved’s guardsmen, then that was her right too. And if she were to cry while she was viewing them naked before a mirror, then who was to know about it? Except perhaps her servants and she could order their tongues to be cut from their mouths, should it come to that.

The bruises hurt, and made her sit uncomfortably in the lounge chair of the garden. Joffrey was there too; he was busy taunting The Hound, unable to notice, or care for, her musings. Should he turn around she would smile, in that sickly sweet way and assure him that she loved him, bruises and all. And nobody would see through that, would they? Because nobody would ever look too hard at pretty Sansa Stark, and her pretty smiles. She missed her sister, and her wolf eyes that saw through mostly anything. Arya would have been strong enough to escape, should she be in the same situation. Arya _had_ escaped. Never in a thousand winters did Sansa think she would wish to be like her sister, or at least around her to draw upon her strength. She shuddered as if a breeze had befallen her, and, after drawing Joffrey’s attention, she pretended that she had.

He rolled his eyes at her, before turning to the male beside him- some painted courtier- and began a conversation. Sansa almost jumped when a shadow crossed her lap, and looked up on the burnt countenance of The Hound. The King had finished toying with him, then.

“You are cold, Little Bird, even in this heat?” Her tongue toyed with her lips and The Hound watched it move, and she pushed back yet another shudder from his attentions. Her head moved, nodding in affirmation. “Perhaps then you should wear this armour. It’s enough to shrivel a man.”

“I do not think, My Lord, that I could survive for one moment in your armour.” Her lips lifted upwards in a polite smile, blinking rapidly.

“I would bet on that.” He nodded along, and she watched the movement, noting the perspiration that laced his brow. She remembered, then, the story that she had been told, how his brother had forced his visage into a fire, and wondered at how he had perspired then. Her cheeks flushed, as she turned her head away. No doubt he would make fun of her, and be angry and cruel, if he knew her thoughts.

When she turned her head back, she discovered that The Hound had moved away from her, although his eyes still lingered. Sansa wondered what he had sought from the conversation that they had had, and if he had found it.

**Sandor**

He had allowed himself to be tormented by her. The sweat on her brow made him imagine it across her body and the parting of her lips intrigued him, until he could not stop the thoughts of her cunt from invading his mind, a plague to him. Just the thought of it, the imagining of her scent and taste was enough to stir the fire inside of him and stir the fear that came with it. Forever he would fear fire, like the fire of Sansa Stark’s hair.

The Hound usually went with his instincts on everything, for that was what dogs did. Yet all of his instincts told him to fuck the girl, to hammer her against a bed post like the many whores he had taken before. His hand longed to be caught in her hair or at her throat so that the moans would vibrate through it. But he should ignore these instincts, if only because she was the King’s. And also because she did not wish it, although it was not often that that reasoning would stop him.

When the Little Bird had shuddered in the heat he had known that it was from horror. She was see-through to him, and perhaps she knew it, for she had turned her head away when she thought and had tinted pink ever so prettily. He had seen it at her ears, for her ears turned red before her cheeks, blending with her locks of flame. Clegane wanted to kiss her ears, and taste the heat: his own personal sun.

**Sansa**

She was unclothed when a knock came at her door. Having sent all of her servants away, so she could better inspect the latest bruises that had turned purple and ugly, she considered ignoring it. But then, perhaps it was Joffrey come to apologise for ripping her dress, and forcing her to be beaten in front of the entire court – oh, could she ever escape the whispers of them? It was insane for her to think that maybe Joffrey _would_ apologise to her, and even more insane that she had considered accepting it.

When the knock sounded again, she grabbed the nearest thing that would cover her. When she had it secure around her, she noticed that it was The Hound’s cloak, and it was thicker than she had realised. Would it be so scandalous if she were to answer the door like this, her eyes ablaze from tears, her hair splayed in stray locks and clothed only in a man’s cloak? And the smell of it -- musk and blood. Let them talk! She was no more disgraced than she had been that morning. Leaning against the heavy door, she pushed it open, and gasped a little as she eyed the owner of the cloak that brushed against her nakedness. Would he hate her? After all she had sullied it with her private places?

She felt The Hound considering her, although his expression was difficult to gauge. “The look of you, Little Bird,” He breathed, leaning his hip against the door frame. “How daring that you answer your door like this.”

“I…” Her lips parted, as she pulled the cloak closer. Her stomach stirred, nervous, although she was somewhat excited in her state of undress. Perhaps Joffrey’s actions had promoted her to rebel, only a little. Or perhaps it was because she was a Tully, like her mother, who had worn her father’s silks upon occasion around Winterfell. There nobody had questioned it, because people there were not as petty as here, and they would not laugh at a tortured girl. She wished she were cold, wished she could feel it once again. “I was not dressed, and my servants are not here.”

“Where are they?” He ground his teeth together, as if he were mad.

“You misunderstand, My Lord. I had sent them away. Their idle chatter irritates me often.”

She watched The Hound move himself slightly as other’s passed. It occurred to her that by moving that way, he had effectively blocked her from view from the passer-bys. Had that been his intent? Why would he care so much if people should see her? Although, he was the only one to move forward and offer her his cloak to cover her shame.

“I came for my cloak, girl. I see you’re using it.”

“If you will wait, I can change, My Lord.” Her hands lifted, curling against the door frame. He shook his head, as if the thought burned him, although it was cruel to joke of such things.

“I will take my leave, Little Bird. The King will have need for me. Get back inside before I close the door on your little fingers.” She did as she was bid, the hint of a frown evident on her brow.

**Sandor**

He could not help himself. His cock ground against the armour he wore, and created soreness. Then and there he had wanted to tug off the plate, no doubt damaging the material, and to bury himself inside of her until she dripped with both his and her pleasure. It was all he could do to hold back from running to his chambers, pulling off his coverings as he went.

But still, Sandor remained at a steady pace, and when he was finally in his chamber he stopped, and attempted to think through the pain and haze of arousal. He shouldn’t be doing this. To give in to these instincts was one step closer to giving in to his other ones, and to melt in her and breathe in her scent.

Still, he could bear it no longer, and he couldn’t stand the way his armour caught at his flesh through the thin underclothes. It pained him, but he took some comfort from that pain. He pulled his armour off slowly, no matter how much he ached and burned with the lust in him. When they were finally torn from him, along with his underclothes, his hand quickly sought his member. Sandor squeezed, pressing a palm to his door and leaning against it. He took care how loudly he said her name, for there were guards and ears everywhere, but it tasted like thick honey on his lips, so he repeated it, his mantra, and his hand palpated his flesh.

Clegane burned all over and he feared it, but it illuminated him all the same. His hair fell forward, and he smelt the fire on it still after all of the years, but when he inhaled he smelt Sansa, and her summer hair, with not even the taste of winter in it. The hound allowed his fingernails to press to the tip of his cock, and he took solace in the pain of it. It reminded him that it was not Sansa’s hand that toyed with him, but his own, for Sansa would never hurt him so.

It wasn’t long before Sandor finished himself, and he felt the warmth of his own seed against the palm of his hand. He squeezed once again, and pumped the rest of the liquid out of him, and he was spent. Breathing out, he jammed his shoulder against the door, holding his hand to view the mess. If only he had a little bird to clean him up. After a while, he was stirred by that ache again and remained in his chamber for hours that passed, and only made his exit when sundown was almost upon him.

**Sansa**

When The Hound had left, the excitement did not leave her, and when she had moved, she noted her wet thighs. Panic rose in her throat, as she wondered if she had bled, and the consequences of bleeding on The Hound’s cloak. Lowering her hand, she slid it beneath the material and allowed herself to dip a finger in the wetness. Upon pulling it back, she noted that the liquid was not red, but clear.

She shuddered. From her youth she knew what this was, when she had toyed with herself from curiosity. A conversation with her mother stopped it, and she blushed to remember. Why should it appear now, when her hand had not touched her most private place? Perhaps…

Sansa shook her head, attempting to ignore the stickiness. However, with every one of her steps it became more and more evident, until she could not stand the thickness of the cloak around her shoulders and waist and abdomen. She tugged it off of her, and lay it atop the bed. Her body followed soon after, and she wrapped herself in the warmth of it. The warmth was so unlike the warmth of the sun: it was a man’s warmth, and she buried herself in it, and could not help her hand from burying in the red hair along her pubic bone.

She gasped, arching her back a little as her finger accidentally brushed against a sensitive spot. The nub thickened with blood, as the liquid of arousal pooled around her heat. Sansa imagined the liquid dripping onto the thick material beneath her, and imagined her scent mixing with the blood and fire that already tainted it. When she gave it back to The Hound, would he be able to tell the difference in scent? Was his sense as fine as the animal he takes his name from?

The thoughts that circled would not stop, and her hand moved without being checked. Her thumb toyed with her enflamed nub and she arched her back once again. It was not she who toyed with herself, because such a thing would be shameful, but a nameless and faceless man, who tasted her with his mouth, and whose thick fingers filled her. It was scandalous to think so, but she would repent later, when her hips did not buckle so, and when her hands were under her control again.

While her right hand continued to toy with her flesh, her left hand rose from the hair below her abdomen and wrapped itself in the fur beneath her. Tugging the material upwards, she used it to massage her bare breast, its nipple aching in hardness. Sandor’s cloak simultaneously massaged her breast and caught the droplets of her arousal. She turned her head, inhaling the scent of it as her fingers lowered to press against her hole. For a while she pinched the outside of it, enjoying the fur gliding across her skin, and the sound of her pleasured gasps filling the air, before she buried a finger in her sweetness.

She was careful not to bury herself too deeply, so that she could maintain the skin of her maidenhead, and not cause disgrace to herself. Still, it was somewhat painful to stretch her entrance, even if it was only a finger. After a moment the pain of it receded, and pleasure became the more dominating feeling. Withdrawing her finger, she soon replaced it, leaning her head back in pleasure. The pleasure rolled off of her tongue as gasps, and her eyes closed, shuddering every time her finger parted her secret lips.

The Tully-haired girl was close to her finish when she was abruptly stopped by a door opening. She gasped once again, but in horror rather than her previous pleasure. Quickly, she attempted to hide her body at the entrance of Shae, but she had already seen, no doubt. Her eyes watered, salt making tracks on her face. “Oh, Shae, don’t look!”

Shae stood against the door, but Sansa could hardly look at her for shame. “I am shameful. Just like a harlot in one of the houses here. I’m no lady.” She felt Shae’s hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged them of.

“Milady, not even the Gods can deny you the touch of your body.” Her accent ripened with laughter, and she flinched to hear it, but took some solace in her words.

“Well, which Gods?” She rubbed a closed hand across her eyes, in a child-like gesture, and blushed at the smell of it.

“The old Gods, and new, Milady.”

“Really?” Sansa regarded her closely, and noticed that she did not look as if she were lying. However, she was foreign, so how was she to know of the Gods? Perhaps she had forsaken them. She had heard of people who did, but they had always been unlucky in life, and it did not seem that Shae was.

Sansa took a moment to compose herself, and she tugged the cloak more securely around herself. It felt as if it was a shield, but it still rubbed against her wetness, and soaked her thighs, so perhaps it was a torturers device.

When Shae left, Sansa was unable to muster the courage to continue, and already dressed in her night clothes. She went to bed unsatisfied, although she had managed to sneak Clegane’s cloak beneath her pillow as a comforter.

**Sandor**

He was oddly relieved at seeing her. Perhaps it was because of his sexual pervasiveness the night before, and he was worried that Sansa would hear of it and be offended by the sight of him. Or perhaps it was good to know that Joffrey had not got his hands on her once again. Whatever the reason, he allowed himself a small breath of relief while he watched her sup in the great hall.

The King, Gods take him soon, had decided to throw a feast once again, and no doubt part of the entertainment would be his mockery. That, then, was why the Little Bird’s expression was slightly pointed, as if she was disturbed. Although, of course, he did not assume to be able to read her mind.

It was difficult for him not to watch her, although his attention should have been elsewhere. She had such grace, although it was marred by darkness, such as the darkness that played along her collarbone as if it were a disease. Sandor imagined his hands making that mark, although not in anger, but passion. Would she have ever permitted such a thing?

Clegane felt eyes upon him, and he looked up at the table where they came from. Lord Tyrion watched him, a somewhat perplexed expression etching itself to his features. Quickly, as if to cover the previous thoughts that played too much on his visage, Clegane bowed his head in a half-bow. Trouble be on his head, if the imp discovered his longings.


End file.
